The life of a widow/writer on wheels.

Category Archives: Grief

My mother had chronic poor health her entire life, including as a child. She spent a lot of time alone, recuperating from one thing or another, often reading a book, or drawing, in her uncle’s enormous garden, which she described as a magical world of plants, birds, butterflies and critters. A refuge and sanctuary. Later in life, she would have her own small garden. I didn’t really get it when I was a child, but I did love to be out there with her. Today, I’m discovering gardening for myself, and how healing and meditative it is.

This summer was my first living in a house that I own, and my taking control of the environment began outside. I have a nice-sized yard, not too big or small, and I knew I wanted a garden.

First I did my research, and consulted gardening friends. Then I painted my garden shed (it used to be white with blue trim), and set up my first garden, a combination of raised bed for vegetables, several flowerbeds, and half a dozen pots.

I was out of town when I learned of my brother’s accident, and in those first anguished texts to friends, the one thing I asked for is that someone please water my garden.

I came home a few days later and spent that entire week trimming all the hedges that surround my property with hand clippers. I clipped every day for a couple of hours before and after work. One of my neighbors finally offered to lend me her electric hedge trimmer, but I declined, despite my hands and wrists being sore. I found it cathartic to snip the bushes manually. It was my way exerting a tiny bit of control, and releasing a little of my anger.

In the subsequent weeks, I’ve been mildly obsessive about the garden. I’m out there every morning with Ruby, checking on the plants, talking to them, encouraging them, weeding and watering them, adding support to the tomatoes, pruning their leaves.

When I’m working in the garden, I’m not thinking about anything else but the plants. I love putting my hands in the earth, the feeling of cool, moist soil, teeming with the little bugs and worms. It’s like feeling Life itself.

I love watching the plants grow and develop. It’s a slow process which requires patience, but if you pay attention, you do notice differences day to day. Especially after it rains, which it’s been doing a lot lately. And, of course, eating anything you grow is nothing short of miraculous.

Equally fascinating is how the plants react not only to the weather, but also to different environments… some better in pots, others better in soil, and still, others, seem to thrive when next to other plants, or when they’re moved to a different spot.

My basil was near death until I moved it into a larger pot; now it’s as big as a bush. My mint was fragile and gangly until I moved it to the garden bed. Now it’s lush and healthy.

The process inspires me with hope.

I feel connected to the plants, like we have a relationship of sorts. I sense that they have some kind of consciousness, and they like being attended to. Sometimes I gently run my fingers over their leaves, just to let them know that I’m here.

I love inspecting the flowers and herbs. This one looks like a piece of art to me. I still can’t get over how beautiful it is.

Occasionally, I pick them and bring them inside. I send photos of the bouquets to my sister and sister in law… “virtual flowers for you.”

It turns out there is such a thing as gardening therapy. As this article about Horticultural therapists points out, “research has shown that the flexible nature of gardening projects allows service users to feel empowered in a non-threatening space. It also helps develop nurturing skills and is thought to boost mindfulness, as well as increasing serotonin and dopamine levels.”

It makes total sense. Gardening is nurturing. Expressive. Creative. It’s also a community. I’ve made new friends, mostly older than I am, who are avid gardeners. They give me advice, and they give me plants, both (I’ve discovered) part of the tradition of gardening.

Now I have to think of what to do with my brother’s ashes, where to put them in the garden. I’m thinking of planting a tree or bush, but not sure which one yet.

In the meantime, I’m already starting to think about how I’ll do things differently next year, where I will move plants, which ones I will give away, and which ones to buy new. It’s nice to have something to look forward to.

Like this:

Picture this. You walk into your bathroom and notice a large centipede in your tub, frozen in place, perhaps because it senses you, but alive. What do you do?

Most people would smash the centipede with their shoe, pick it up with some toilet paper, and throw it in the toilet. That’s what I used to do.

Lately, however, my attitude towards bugs has changed, and no one is more surprised by this than I. That’s because I very strongly dislike things that scurry or buzz, especially in my house, but even outside. When I encounter one of these creepy-crawly-buzzing creatures I tend to react with the stereotypical “scream and jump on the nearest chair” routine, followed by the equally predictable “search and destroy” routine.

The only exception has been spiders. I don’t know if it’s a myth I once heard, or because I read Charlotte’s Web when I was a child, but I’ve always believed it’s bad luck to kill a spider.

I think the attitude shift towards the rest of the creepy-crawlies started after my late husband died. I remember going on a hike in the Santa monica mountains about four weeks after he died. It was ill-advised to attempt a hike – I was totally exhausted and didn’t make it very far.

I ended up sitting at a bench and just staring at the scenery – ducks in the water, flies and bumblebees buzzing around, a hummingbird making its way from flower to flower. At the time, I felt resentment, like why did these flies and bumblebees get to live and Kaz didn’t?

But over the years, I started marveling at anything to do with Nature, even bugs. I actually started feeling like we humans are the guests, and the bugs, plants, and animals are the hosts. Like it’s their planet. We’re just passing through.

When I moved from Los Angeles to rural upstate New York, the bugs and critters seemed more natural than people. I still screamed when I saw them in my house, but I hesitated before running after them with a can of bug spray. And I felt really bad when I killed one. That house had a mice problem, and the owner helped me put out traps and poison. One day I came home to a dead mouse floating in the toilet, which was beyond gross, but also sad. The mouse probably ate the poison and jumped into the toilet to relieve his thirst or pain. I felt terrible for it.

When I moved into my current house, I was relieved that it didn’t seem to have any major bug or rodent issues. Then, one winter’s day when all the windows were closed, a diamond-dhaped, flat, flying bug suddenly landed on my computer, seemingly out of nowhere. Normally, I would have killed it, but something told me not to.

I very gently picked the bug up with a tissue, opened the window to the freezing winter’s air, and threw it outside, wishing it luck.

I repeated this with about a dozen identical bugs (or a dozen times with the same bug, who knows) over the course of that first winter. After the third time, I decided to research the bug and learned that it was a Stink Bug, which are common in this area and relatively harmless.

Killing a Stink Bug releases… you guessed it… the Mother of all Stinks. So, my instinct to not kill it was correct.

Since then, I have felt less inclined to kill other bugs I come across. Which brings me back to the centipede.

A few weeks ago I saw this thing in my tub.

I immediately screamed and ran out of the bathroom, horrified and hyperventilating.

When I finally got up the nerve to re-enter the bathroom, I stood over the tub and inspected the centipede. My voice must have startled it, because now it was trying desperately to crawl out, but as soon as it got halfway up, it slid back down. It was definitely trapped.

Everything about this bug revolted me. But I simply couldn’t kill it. Which meant I had to get rid of it some other way.

First, I tried easing a piece of toilet paper under it, but the minute I got close, the damn thing started running so fast, it was almost on my finger before I knew what was happening. I screamed, dropped the toilet paper with the centipede, and ran out of the bathroom again.

A few minutes later, I returned with a New Yorker magazine.

“I’m not trying to hurt you,” I said to the centipede. “I’m trying to save you.”

I took a deep breath, paused to open the window and the screen, then gently placed the New Yorker under the centipede. Once again it ran at lightening speed across the magazine, but I had *just* enough time to stand up and throw it and the New Yorker outside.

This same scenario happened with a black ant, as well as a spider. Apparently, my tub is a popular spot.

Then, of course, there was the squirrel who jumped in front of my car and which I quickly swerved to avoid hitting.

The deer that someone else hit, whose dead body on the side of the road caused me to burst into tears.

And the frogs.

Returning home from a friend’s house in the woods one rainy evening, my headlights picked up on movement on the road ahead. It was hundreds, if not thousands, of little frogs jumping in the middle of the road (this video shows a similar situation, though I was on a smaller country road).

It was too late to turn back, so I had to keep going… knowing that I was killing at least a few frogs. It was heartbreaking.

As was the other day when a bee stung me, and I realized that the bee would die.

Why am I telling you about these weird stories? I guess because I see a direct correlation between loss and life.

I was just trying to explain this to a friend the other day (and wasn’t terribly articulate about it). Losing people, and experiencing death up close, humbles you. Humbles me. To the point where I don’t look at any living creature in the same way. The centipede, bees, worms, snakes, rats, mice, you name it… call me a hippie, but I will spend a little more time to avoid them without harming them.

I call you “my old friend,” but you most definitely are not my friend. Nor are you my enemy. You are a familiar presence, a being of some sort, thrust upon me against my will in times of tragedy. At least, that’s what you seem to me now. We’ve met each other so many times that I feel connected to you in some weird way. Unlike a real friend, I am never happy to see you, and I dislike you very much. But at this point in my life, there is perhaps no one with whom I have been more intimate than you.

If you add up all of our time together, it’s longer than my longest relationship. And in those intense periods, you’ve consumed my mind, body, heart and soul. You’ve been in my blood and in my bed. You’ve seen me at my very weakest and most agonized state, heard my cries and confessions, my hopes, fears, prayers, and dreams. You know my habits, my self doubts, my anger. You know my heart, and how much I love the people we share in common.

I won’t say you took them from me. That is not your role. Your role is to fill the space that the person I loved once occupied… with darkness. You are the abyss, the cold watery depth, the hole in my chest, in all of our chests, for you descend on everyone who loved the person.

I will say that, even though we’ve met before, this time (every time) feels different. More personal. A little too close to home.

I cannot yet address too directly the still-unfathomable fact that my dear beautiful brother died six weeks ago. Or the manner in which he died – a horrible freak accident caused by a drunk driver.

On an intellectual level, I understand that the driver caused the accident to happen. On a non-intellectual, emotional, subconscious level I do not understand how the accident was allowed to happen by the unseen force(s) of the universe. Random acts of tragedy have always stumped me in this way. It’s terribly challenging to not ask Why, even more so to not point fingers at the sky.

Losing my brother was an energy shift. You, dear Darkness, are the aftermath. The messenger, the ambassador sent to inhabit our hearts and minds until we heal enough to no longer justify your presence.

What a sad existence for you, to be the vessel and bearer of so much sorrow, powerless to prevent the collective pain, eternally unwanted and unloved, watching people suffer from the loss of a love that you’ll never experience. To be nothing more than a void, into which our screams and cries and beating of chests disappear like sound waves in space, dead on arrival, no one to hear them.

The only positive thing I can say about you is that I tend to learn something new every time we meet. Reluctantly, of course. I prefer to learn these lessons some other way.

I can’t say “welcome back,” but simply hello. I have a few more grey hairs since last we met. I’ve put on a few pounds. But I’m stronger and more aware of myself than before. Also, more positive. I know that eventually the painful squeezing of my heart, the confusion and fogginess will subside. I know that the bits of my heart that were torn away will heal in time until they are rough internal scars. I know that new memories will create a distance from old memories, thereby dulling the pain of remembering my brother in a visceral way like I do now. I know that his wife and children will survive their broken hearts and thrive with his strength forever in their bodies and souls.

For now, though, all of us who loved him are going through it. For me, it’s the quiet moments that are the most difficult. It’s taken me six weeks to be able to sit at my computer without sobbing. It took about five weeks to be able to write in my journal that my brother died. Today, it’s still very hard for me to look at recent pictures of him.

But you know all of this, don’t you? Yes, you know it all.

Though I dislike you very much, I can’t say that I hate you because you are born from love. The more love, the deeper you penetrate, and the longer you stay.

And so, here we are, together again… for what will surely be a long period of coexistence. I wonder what you will teach me this time.

I experienced a Moment the other night, an emotional moment, in public. It was slightly alcohol-induced, but I wasn’t so inebriated that the room was spinning or I felt bad. On the contrary, I was in that sweet spot, tipsy and feeling wonderful. I had just completed a work project that took several weeks and a lot of energy, and had a successful, well-attended opening. People in town had seen me bleary-eyed and dressed in paint-splattered clothes for weeks, but this night I was wearing makeup and a brand new dress. I was feeling beautiful, proud, relieved, and as buoyant as if I were walking on air. If I’d had enough money, I would have bought everyone a round of drinks. Instead, I found myself standing next to a handsome stranger at the bar.

Now, in my little town, a handsome un-accompanied stranger whom you’ve never seen before is a rarity, especially on a Saturday night in your favorite watering hole, and especially when he’s carrying a large, football-sized conch. Yes, that’s right, he had a large conch, and I blew it at the bar. Very loudly. I think I surprised a few people with just how loudly I let it rip. Or maybe when I yelled “It’s like Yom Kippur in here!” afterwards, laughing hysterically.

I blew it a few more times before getting tired and handing it back to its owner, who looked both amused and impressed. Introductions, another drink, more conch blowing and conch talk, and then Marvin Gaye’s Let’s Get It On came on the sound system. If you’ve never heard this song, I’ve added a link below. It’s one of those songs that makes you want to dance with someone. Well, for once, there was actually someone there, and, based on the few words we’d exchanged, I suspected that he knew and loved this song too. I reached for his hand and pulled him out of his chair to dance with me.

I don’t know how much of it was the song, the man, me, or the moment—but dancing together felt really damn good. It’s been a really long time since I’ve been that physically close to another person. And my instinct that he knew and loved the song was correct. He knew the words, he knew the rhythm, and he was feeling it. He danced like a gentleman, not grabby or grindy but holding my hand to his chest and his other arm around my waist. I closed my eyes and half-sang, half-hummed the song, feeling relaxed, not thinking about anything, just totally in the moment, enjoying Marvin’s voice, the words, the warmth of this man’s body and hands, the comfort of being able to put my head on his shoulder, feeling the yearning beautiful soul in that music. At some point near the end of the song, our faces brushed close to each other and we kissed. It was honestly the only way to end that dance to that song in that bar on that night.

As the song faded, we stopped and returned to the bar. And that’s when the Moment happened.

A powerful emotional wave started in my heart moved down to my stomach through my loins then rushed back up through my heart up to my brain, hitting the shores of my eyelids before plunging down and through the circuit all over again. I wasn’t crying, but my eyes welled up and tears fell down my cheeks, and I was absolutely powerless to stop them. I closed my eyes and focused, not on stopping the wave, but on feeling it, sweeping through me, rushing, sloshing this way and that… until the waters finally calmed.

When I opened my eyes again, I sensed the bartender and my friends, who were also at the bar and witnessed the moment, trying to hide their concern and respectfully give Mr. Conch, who also saw it, the chance to react first. He was standing right beside me, thankfully not looking panicked, but mildly concerned and curious. He smiled a friendly smile and rubbed my back gently. “Are you okay?” “Yes,” I said and wiped my eyes. Moments later, we were all laughing again.

I didn’t feel as embarrassed as I thought I would, having had such a moment in public in one of the few bars in my little town. As moments go, it was pretty mild. It’s not like I caused a scene. Just a few silent tears in the corner of the bar next to the espresso machine. I wondered if the other folks at the bar recognized that it had been a wave of grief and not just a moment of having too much to drink. I hoped everyone would forget about it the next day, and then decided I didn’t care. The moment had clearly been triggered by the dance and the kiss, both of which I thoroughly enjoyed. And therein lies the rub.

The heart is a muscle and, like any other muscle, it remembers long-stored emotions. Certain joys can actually trigger a more acute pain than sadness can. Sometimes I wonder if I am so tender inside that I will never be able to experience those emotions again without also feeling pangs of pain. Or maybe I’ll only feel pain for a short while, and the painful periods, and the time between them, will get shorter and shorter. All I know is I have been alone, without a partner, and nearly celibate for almost seven years. I am content being alone, and do not feel lacking or afraid of anything. But I’m still human, and like Marvin says, “We’re all sensitive people, with so much to give…”

There’s a part of me that feels so untouched and raw that it is almost innocent, washed clean, and yet it is also mature and strong. This is the part deep inside me that has developed within the dark pressures of grief, like a pearl nestled in the soft tissue of a shell, a butterfly just born and ready to fly.

A few weeks ago, at a party to ring in the New Year, I entered for the first time the home of a woman whom I’ve only recently begun to know. I’d heard that she was a fairly recent widow (she lost her husband a few years ago), but it wasn’t until I attended this party that I got a sense of her late husband. Besides the fact that there were books and knick-knacks that clearly belonged to him still on the bookshelves, many people mentioned him to me. “Did you know ____?” they asked. When I said no, they sighed and shared a small memory. One person told me that he was a lot of fun, had a great sense of humor, and always lit up the room. Another person said he was “the consummate gentleman.” A third person told me the last time they saw him, he’d ordered a martini and joked about it possibly being his last because you just never know.

Even though it was a joyous party, I couldn’t help but feel the presence of his absence… a man whom most people at this party knew and missed, and whom I found myself wishing I could have met. The evening reminded me of a particularly painful but somewhat subtler aspect of loss that is sometimes overlooked… the loss of being able to share the person with others.

When my mother died, I used to categorize people into two groups: People Who Knew Her vs. People Who Had Not Known Her. I lost her when I was 22, so the first group was comprised mostly of family members, friends of the family, and childhood friends who used to casually say hi to her when they’d come over for sleep-overs, or when she was heading out to grocery shop while we hung out. To this day, these people are dearer to me than I can articulate, and the bond I feel towards them is palatable.

To the second group (people who did not know her), I would always try to explain who she was. Once when I was working abroad for a short period during our first year together, I wrote Kaz a long letter describing my mother:

My mom is on my mind tonight. I really wish you could have met her. It’s always tough when I meet new people that I care about, and I can’t introduce them to her or vice-versa. To not be able to share my mother with someone I love really hurts. So, if you don’t mind, I’d like to introduce her to you now. I mean, I know I’ve talked about her before, but I’m not sure if I’ve accurately described who she was.

She had a great sense of humor, and was goofy like me. I think we would all have laughed together a lot. She was young at heart, open-minded and curious about the world. She loved to travel, meet new people and experience new things. When I was a kid, she was always dragging me to some new place to visit, an art exhibition or museum or independent movie theater. She was an avid reader, and LOVED music. She would have loved that you know so much about music and have access to it.

She was a great role model in many ways, not the least of which in how to deal with adversity, how to keep going no matter what, how to not give up hope, how to “maintain” like you’re always telling me (she would have loved that motto). She went through so much—her body was frail—but her will was incredibly strong. Maybe that’s why I’m thinking of her now. I’m so stressed out and wish I could call her and hear her voice. She actually spoke in somewhat of a whisper due to the multiple tracheotomies during her heart surgeries. Each one messed with her vocal chords, so she really only had a “voice” in the morning, or after naps, the rest of time it was a whisper.

Whenever I was down, she would tell me to “think happy thoughts,” or she’d encourage me to draw something, or write a story. She was always encouraging me to express myself and write about what I know. She was a great listener too. It was one of her greatest attributes, that she could listen without judgment and give good advice. And she was so loving. Even when we didn’t get along, I knew that she loved me and would always love me, no matter what. I know that you and I grew up differently—me with siblings, you as an only child—but on this we can relate, no? Our mothers were there for us through thick and thin (when our fathers were not). They loved us unconditionally and were the people that we could always count on.

I’ll be honest. Sometimes I feel jealous of you because your mother is still alive. You’re so lucky. Losing my mom was, and still is, the biggest thing that has ever happened to me, and I miss her every day. The pain of losing her never really goes away. It just subsides, so that it’s not at the surface. I hope you don’t mind me sharing all of this you. I know she would have loved you, and vice-versa. Anyway, thanks for listening…

Kaz’s death, three years after I wrote that letter, created another dividing line. Like with my mother, the people who knew him hold a special place in my heart. The few people who knew both my mother and Kaz… well, they are the rare gems in my life.

Maybe because of these losses, I’m more sensitive to the desire that I see in others to share the essence of their lost loved ones. I recognize the urge to try and communicate who the person was, what they were about, how they sounded, dressed, moved. Like the person who invited me into their home recently and revealed a guest bedroom they’d decorated specifically to honor their late mother. Maybe that sounds strange to some, but I totally got it. Walking into this room, which even smells different than other rooms in the house, I immediately sensed the essence of a feminine, kind-hearted, intelligent, classy woman… a lady in every sense of the word. I was moved by the care in which the room had been lovingly put together, every detail considered, and my heart surged with compassion for the person who’d created it.

We all struggle to keep our loved ones alive in some way… if not alive, then at least remembered. Parents try to explain to their children who their grandparents were… show them photos, tell them stories. It’s never satisfying enough. Nothing can sum up the whole of a person, and often people don’t have the patience to listen. But we do what we can, learn to accept the limitations… and perhaps (if we’re lucky) we find other ways to express the person’s character.

It’s been seven months since my last blog post. A very dramatic seven months, indeed. I moved from the rural area I once lived in to a small town; I started a second PT job, buried my father’s ashes, and have become more involved in local issues and politics.

And I still haven’t been writing.

Some of my new friends don’t even know I am a writer. Many don’t know about the situation that brought me to upstate NY in the first place, the loss and trauma that proceeded that move. I don’t go around talking about it, so why would anyone know unless they ask? Even when they do ask, I tend to answer in vague terms.

I told myself that I’m on a writing hiatus because I need to “live life” for a little while, which is all well and good… except what the hell is the point of life if I’m not writing? That’s what I do. And I miss it.

There have been signs here and there that I need to get back to it. Take, for instance, this conversation I had with a woman – let’s call her J – around the beginning of the year.

We were engaged in a business meeting when J unexpectedly said, “Do you mind if I share something personal with you? I know we just met, and I don’t usually do this, but I read some of your writing online and feel like you would understand.”

“Go ahead,” I told her.

“I haven’t even told some of my closest friends… but my husband was recently diagnosed with Stage IV ___ cancer.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said quietly, trying to keep pity out of my voice.

“Can I ask you some questions? I don’t know who else to talk to,” she said.

Of course, ask away, I told her.

She proceeded to ask me numerous questions about Kaz… how had I handled the news of his diagnosis, how involved was I with his care, what was his mood like, how had I kept him motivated, how long did he fight it, when did he start to accept the inevitable, when did I accept the inevitable, was I there when he died, what was that moment like, how had the whole experience affected my life, how long did it take for things to feel “normal” again… and more.

As I answered all her questions, in the back of my mind I was thinking, you are who I’m writing my book for. In fact, I wished I could have just handed her my book and said, “Read this. All the answers are inside.”

Answering her questions brought me back to memories and moments that I hadn’t thought about it a long time. It took some effort to recall them without getting emotional, and I didn’t want to get emotional because it wasn’t about me, it was about her (I was relieved that she didn’t get emotional either).

Her expression was actually one of wonder, and intense listening. She was clearly hungry for information, which made my heart ache. I remember being in her shoes, painfully curious about what the future held, desperate to speak to someone who could illuminate all the dark corners, hungry for answers in what was a perpetual state of not knowing.

I left our meeting feeling raw and somewhat drained, and sad for what this couple was going through, but also inspired. I told myself that when I returned to writing, I would keep this woman in my thoughts… and write to her.

It also occurred to me that maybe I haven’t been writing lately because I don’t want to “go back” there anymore. I wanted to focus on the present and the future, and take a break from the past.

Then the other day I met another woman who had left New York City several years ago to be her mother’s caregiver… her mother had had the same type of brain tumor as Kaz and succumbed to it nine months after diagnosis.

When we discovered this huge thing in common, it was like a light went off behind both of our eyes. We hardly knew each other, and yet we instantly knew so very much about one another. As she put it, it’s rare to meet another person who has witnessed, and been intimately involved with, the slow decline of a loved one, especially to an illness that affects the neurological system.

I explained to her my theory about wanting to live life and not keep going back to the past, but even as I said the words, I knew the hiatus was over.

Another impetus has been the election.

There is so much divisiveness and negativity in the non-stop news cycle these days, and so little empathy and compassion for one another, even less so for the marginalized. I find myself wondering about all the aspects of life that transcend politics, rhetoric and differences. Where are the voices that will bring us together? And what can I do personally to make a difference?

Well, this is it. I have thought about this blog so much, about you the readers, and my fellow bloggers. And I’m here to say that the bitch is back.

A lot has happened lately. A good friend died last month in Los Angeles, shortly after my father died. His name was Brian. He was around my age, and his death was sudden. News of it spread like wildfire, friends, family and co-workers sharing their shock, sadness and tributes on social media. While I’ve talked to a few people on the phone, it is taking me some time to process. For now, I just want to share some memories.

Brian was a good friend of my late husband Kaz. They worked together at DreamWorks Animation for a few years and remained friends afterwards. They both knew music really well, loved football, hard liquor and curvy women. I met Brian in 2008, the year that Kaz and I officially started dating – I can’t remember if it was at a show or at Thanksgiving, but I remember liking him right away.

Brian was rough around the edges but a sweetheart. Tall and blond with a raspy voice and loud laugh, he always reminded me of a viking, except he was from Montana. It seemed like he was always either going fishing or had just returned from fishing. Every time we went over his house he offered us fresh fish to take home.

Brian had started dating a woman named Erin around the same time as Kaz and I started dating, and the four of us used to hang out quite a bit. We went to a lot of rock shows together, the Glow Festival in Santa Monica, bike rides on the beach, Thanksgiving, Super Bowl and Halloween parties. We witnessed each other’s ups and downs. Brian and Erin were really supportive when Kaz was ill, and were among the last people to see Kaz alive.

After Kaz died, Brian and I hung out every now and then and kept in touch via texts and phone calls. We got together every year to celebrate Kaz’s birthday at Jumbo’s Clown Room. We went up the mountain to visit the spot where Kaz’s ashes were scattered, and to see Kaz’s favorite band Clutch.

Once, after he watched my dog for a week while I was traveling, I gave him the gift of a small handmade knife with his initials engraved on the handle. It was perfect for skinning fish. Of course, when I gave it to him, I forgot to tell him that it was a knife inside the rolled up fabric. When he unwrapped it, the knife fell to the floor with the pointy end lodging into the wood an inch away from his big toe. I was mortified, but Brian thought it was the funniest thing ever.

When I left Los Angeles for New York, I took the Northern route and traveled through Montana. I called Brian from the road a couple of times to tell him what a beautiful state he came from, the most beautiful I had ever seen. He loved hearing that. I felt like I understood him just a little better having seen his home state, where one felt the wildness in the landscape and the people.

I will never forget Brian. He was larger-than-life in many respects, beloved my many, a really good and loyal friend, and a helluva lot of fun. He loved Kaz like a brother and was so kind to me after he died. We didn’t talk too much directly about this mutual loss, but we toasted many drinks and shared many laughs remembering the good times. Kaz’s death rocked many people’s worlds and I know it was a huge loss for Brian. He went up to visit Kaz on the mountain on a regular basis, always posting a pic of a Maker’s Mark bottle with a brief note, “Came up for a visit. Miss you big Kaz.”

It’s strange to think of the world without Brian. I’m so grateful that I knew him and got to share some good times with him. My heart goes out to his family and loved ones.